Cold Blood

Icicles hanging

I twist back around to face my hand, gazing on in horror at what I behold. It’s pale fingers, thin and cold, are slowly being wrapped in a loving spell of ice. Like a silent snakes coil, it creeps from my arm up my wrist and palm, betraying icicles of frozen blood in its wake.

The skin beneath my nails begins to whiten, then turns to a ghastly shade of azure and purple. The spells tightening grip sucks the dregs of life from my limb, breathing back into the vessels of my digits, a chilling, eerie wind.

With full sovereignty over her  victim, the Queen wields a weapon of evil. Leaping from its sheath the sword of ice plunges into the frosted wax surface of my skin.

Tearing the flesh hither and there, preparing for the rush of hot red blood against the porcelain canvas, I feel the strongest desire to scream. But no words come out, no decibels heard.

Because there was no blood. No pain.

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